


The same but always different

by TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Implied Daddy Kink, Implied Dirty Talk, Knotting, M/M, Model Derek, Model Stiles, Neckz 'n' Throats - freeform, Non-Linear Narrative, Older Derek Hale, Stiles is Legal, a dash of angst, or at least implied possible daddy kink, sex between two men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11366670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving/pseuds/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving
Summary: Derek had been around long enough to always be in control. That was before his sister's office started smelling like ground coffee and lemon.





	The same but always different

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarlettletterr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettletterr/gifts).



> I hope [pfudorqueen](http://pfudorqueen.tumblr.com/) will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

_Derek **wants**!_

_Laid out beneath him: a bared throat with miles upon miles of mole dotted skin under which beats a hasty pulse. It’s not fear though; no, Derek can smell the cloying sweetness of arousal, can feel it coating his tongue, tendrils of it sneaking up his nose until there’s nothing but the intoxicating scent of the man before him._

* * *

When Derek was six he overheard his mom telling uncle Peter that “it takes a special kind of human to see beyond the fangs and claws.” He hadn’t really understood at the time, hadn’t understood that he (and most of his family with him) were _different_ , were something else than just human.

* * *

_He lets the beta shift roll over him; slowly for the benefit of the camera he’s dimly aware is pointed right at them. Breath fanning over the thin skin of a vulnerable neck milliseconds before he lets his fangs drop from his gums, grazing the pulse point – not enough force behind to break the skin but enough to have it raise in red lines to show of their paths._  
_Derek relishes the almost silent, sharp intake of breath; relishes the way the stench of arousal thickens in the air, almost to the point where even the few humans present are able to smell it._

* * *

When Derek was fourteen he’d thought he’d understood what his mother had meant all those years ago. Thought he’d finally found a human who’d be willing to look past the fangs and claws and see that he was no less human than her. She’d died in agony, spewing black bile over a dirt floor as he tried to drain her pain.

* * *

_It sells out almost as soon as it hits the magazine stands. Laura debating whether to have more copies printed or have Stiles – and what a ridiculous name that is (in Derek’s opinion at least) though he’s willing to refrain from any and all teasing if it means getting to have his mouthwatering scent surrounding him and his marvelous pale skin laid out for Derek to mark._

_Derek can hardly be blamed for not paying attention to his sister’s musings when the visual evidence of how far gone they both were is lying there on Laura’s desk. Stiles’ head is thrown back, resting on Derek’s shoulder, none of the honey golden, whiskey brown of his eyes visible between heavy eyelids and the blown out pupils; his mouth hanging open, just enough to hint at the moan Derek remembers coming from him as he’d pressed even closer to him. For all that they hadn’t done anything that would be deemed PG-worthy by human standards Stiles looks thoroughly debauched._

_Not that the Derek in the picture is any better. He’s completely lost any semblance of control; red eyes looking straight at the camera, a silent warning in his gaze as if someone has tried to move too close; hands that aren’t entirely human-looking holding tight onto a shirt covered torso, claws several inches long poking little holes in the white fabric._  
_The most damning though, the thing Derek can’t take his eyes off of, is the way his mouth hovers over the beating pulse, the sheen of saliva dripping down his fangs pooling at the hollow of Stiles’ throat; the way anybody with eyes can see how desperate Derek is to **bite** , to **mark**. _

* * *

__

When Derek was sixteen he learnt that ‘human’ sometimes means ‘monster’. Learnt the hard way that to some the end justifies the means.

She’d been beautiful and sure of herself and had him running after her within hours of them meeting for the first time. He’d been flattered that someone like her had wanted to spend time with someone like him; the quiet, dark, broody one in a house filled with noise and light. She’d smelled like artificial roses and something unidentifiable (the smell of gun oil and evil forever seared into his brain).  
He’d given her everything she’d demanded, never once stopping to think about the wrongness even as she kept pushing his boundaries further than he was prepared for.

It had been a coincidence. Of all the people in their house it had been Cora who’d wondered why he’d changed in ways not even Paige’s death had managed, Cora who followed him to the abandoned warehouse at the other end of town and had taken one look at the scene taking place inside before running as fast as she could back to her mom.

~X~

Kate Argent probably didn’t think she would meet the Alpha herself, so history can probably forgive her the ease with which she died. Derek was shipped off to live with his uncle Peter, getting away from the bad memories of Beacon Hills and hopefully settle in to his own skin.

* * *

_It probably shouldn’t surprise him when Laura announces that she has hired Stiles to come back, maybe even sign on as a permanent model for **Le Loup**. He keeps it together for the hour it takes him to get home, where he promptly face plants on his bed, screaming into his pillow._

_He refuses to come out for dinner, slightly ashamed of his search history but not enough to regret the purchases he’s made._

* * *

Living with uncle Peter is easy. Or, rather, living with uncle Peter’s _housekeeper_ is easy.  
She’s a small, stout woman whose face is littered with laugh lines; she insists he calls her Manuela and keeps calling him Master Hale despite his numerous protests.  
More than once in the first year finds him crying into her bosom and her petting his hair assuring him everything’s going to be okay.

He finishes high school and gets accepted to the college of his dreams, the rest of the family crashing at uncle Peter’s place for a week to celebrate, and it feels good to have them close again. Talia asks if he thinks he’ll ever come back home to which his eyes move to the door Manuela just walked through to get back to her kitchen and Talia sighs, puts her hand on top of his and squeezes.  
“I’m so proud of you, Der,” she says, and that’s the end of that.

~X~

When Derek is eighteen he learns that not all humans will think of fangs and claws as something to pull away from. They’re still afraid; their hearts hammering like a rabbit’s trying to hide from a predator; their bodies jerking as they try to keep still and their scents are all acrid fright and molasses sweet arousal. It makes him want to gag, but the paycheck is enough to have him coming back.

He vents to Manuela. Sitting on the kitchen counter watching her chopping and dicing and making magic that smells like heaven and tastes even better he complains about everything and nothing. Tells her stories of college life and how he hates his job. She makes encouraging noises when he needs to be reminded he’s talking, makes soothing ones when he gets sad and always slaps his hands away with a wooden spoon when he tries to take something from her chopping board; which shouldn’t be possible considering he’s a werewolf and she’s wielding a knife, but it happens without fail each and every time he tries.

* * *

_Derek bribes the photographer to give him the memory card from Stiles’ test shot, agonizes for hours over which pictures he likes the most and ends up printing basically all of them on his office printer. He ignores the fact that ever since he moved into his own apartment three years ago they’ve always had dinner together on Wednesdays and instead choses to go home._

_He’s in a bad mood the next day, mostly because even with supernatural healing he still managed to chafe himself._

~X~

By the time he’s twenty-two, Derek’s a _big deal_ in the industry and can pick and choose between all the offers he get, can even recommend replacements on shoots he for whatever reason has no interest in. He’s also come to realize that every shoot, every magazine seems to be catering solely to humans; and realizing the potential market for a werewolf specific publication he starts to make a plan, making good use of the bachelor in business science he’s been getting.

It takes him a month to persuade Laura; this might be Derek’s idea but he has zero interest in pulling the strings behind the scene. He’s perfectly happy being the one in front of the camera, _excels_ in it in a way he’s never excelled in anything before, something he’s better at than the rest of his family and he wants to keep doing it, for as long as possible. However, he wants to be able to veto decisions involving him directly, wants to be able to refuse photographers or other models as he pleases. He’s spent far too long bathed in the acrid sweet stench of fear and lust and he wants to be sure to avoid it in the future.

Once Laura is on board it’s easier to flesh out the final parts of the plan and present it to uncle Peter – which of course means he takes everything to Manuela. She looks over everything, asks him an endless streak of questions that he answers to the best of his abilities. When she’s done she pets his hair and resumes making the lasagna. Derek leaves the papers on the kitchen counter, going for a run before dinner.

~X~

_Later – days, weeks, eternities; he doesn’t know, doesn’t care – he wakes up to cold sheets and a faint trace of a scent that has his fangs itching to break through. Images flash before his eyes, too fast right now for him to look at properly but later, when his head’s less fuzzy and his mouth doesn’t taste like something crawled in and died there, he will look at each and every one carefully._

_The coffee tastes like brackish water and the dry toast he tries to swallow has him kneeling over the toilet almost faster than his sluggish mind can keep up, but it – and the thorough brushing he treats his teeth to after – makes him feel slightly more alive than when he woke up._

_It’s Sunday and there’s nothing he has to do, nowhere to be and he almost feels tempted to call Laura and tell her about his momentous stupid idea – after all, there’s a reason Derek doesn’t hook up with his partners._

~X~

They call their new magazine _Le Loup_ because Derek’s imaginative like that (and it had made both Cora and Talia laugh, but he’ll take that little tidbit with him to his grave) and it’s an instant success.  
At first it’s simply an adult magazine for weres; pages of fragile necks and vulnerable jawlines, swollen bellies and woodland creatures laid out for inspection. By human standards it’s barely cause for reaction, by the weres’ – well, their sales numbers speak for themselves.

Over time they begin to sign models permanently; build complicated character arcs and elaborate stories for them, gaining a different kind of following than they had in the beginning.  
Derek’s right there, in the middle of everything, approving some ideas and sending others Laura’s way. He’s less often in front of the camera these days, well into his forties and settled enough in his own life that he can leave the stage light for younger talent.

~X~

 _“… contract, Lyds.”_ A voice Derek doesn’t recognize floats down the hall from Laura’s office.

 _“Because I don’t want you in jail for killing him, Stiles.”_ And that voice Derek is far too familiar with; after all Lydia Martin has been ruling the industry with an iron fist since before Derek had started modeling some twenty years ago. She has an eye for the next new talent and often she’d refer them to either _Le Loup_ or some of the other major media houses catering to the same audience; not to mention that, especially for humans, was she the go-to agent and she’d gotten quite a few out of unfavorable contracts (or worse) over the years. That also means that even though Laura’s apparently ready to take this ‘Stiles’ person on, he comes with a set of legal problems. Derek _hates_ when his sister makes him sit in on cases like that.

So, he does what any other sensible adult would do and take a few steps backwards to hide behind a corner, patiently waiting for Laura to enter her office and talk to Lydia and Stiles; and once he’s sure she’s too busy to notice he’ll just sneak past her door and make a run for it.  
Or, as it turns out, he’ll have his well thought out plan thwarted by Laura knowing him far too well and practically dragging him to her office by his ear.

-

Laura’s office smells like ground coffee and lemon (which it doesn’t usually); of the two chairs with their backs against the door only one is occupied, the person - this Stiles, obviously – is slouched slightly forward, wearing a red hoodie that seems a little tight across his shoulders, his brown hair the perfect length to grab – and Derek should probably stop that train of thought all things considered.  
Standing next to him is Lydia, cheeks a splotchy red and mouth thinned in anger. Lydia doesn’t really have a scent (something about her being a banshee, Talia once said) but if she did Derek would be able to smell the rage rolling off of her in waves, mixed with the frustration he can see in her eyes.

He takes the few steps forward, holding out his hand for Lydia to shake before turning towards the chair. ‘Stiles’ looks every bit as mouthwatering as his scent is. His skin is slightly tanned, lightly dusted with moles; mouth wide and pink, the corners turned upwards as if smiling usually comes easy to him; large, brown eyes – dark at first but once he raises his head and the light catches them they shine like amber liquid.  
Then he stretches his arm out to greet Derek and there, around his wrist, is a very clear impression of fingers – claws, if the small puncture wounds adorning his skin is anything to go by – the bruise purple against the rest of the lighter skin.

There’s a growl reverberating through the room and it’s not until Laura slaps the back of his head he realizes the sound’s coming from him. Sheepishly he let’s go of the hand he’s grabbed to look closer at and he takes a seat in his own chair telling himself there’s no reason to go crazy over a bruise; after all working with humans he knows how little it takes to make them bruise – and if there’s a small voice in the back of his head telling him that this was unnecessary he ignores it for the time being.

~X~

Working with Stiles is torture.  
He is endless chatter and constant movement; can’t keep still to save his life and yet his pictures are little pieces of art Derek can barely stand the thought of having other people look at.

Putting Stiles (or his name) on the front page is enough for them to have to increase the print run with _at least_ a hundred thousand copies; and that doesn’t take into account the amount of fan mail he gets. Derek, because sometimes he apparently has a masochistic stride a mile long, reads some of them which always results in him having to buy a new punching bag because he tears the one he has to pieces.  
And he gets it, he truly does; after all, he’s thought of doing most of the things to Stiles the writers of those disgusting letters are suggesting, but unlike them Derek’s a man of principles.

But worse than all of that is his _scent_. It follows Derek anywhere he goes, no place is safe from it and even when he’s not at work it lingers in his nostrils, haunts his dreams and makes him sleep poorly for the first time since he was seventeen.

* * *

In the end something needs to give and it’s during a photoshoot two years after that first meeting in Laura’s office that it happens.

Stiles is wearing this pale grey tank top and a pair of indecently small boxer briefs. His back is at the door frame through which Derek has to walk, dressed in an expensive suit and with a brief case in hand.  
The story the photographer is going for is definitely domestic, a man coming home from a business trip and his loving husband making dinner. It’s a scene Derek’s been part of plenty of times though it’s the first time he’s doing it and wishing it wasn’t a fantasy; wishing that when he steps closer to Stiles (grabs his hips to pull him closer, turn him around to show off the stupid apron covering his front, when Stiles tilts his head to the side offering his neck in greeting and Derek’s marking him with fangs and stubble) that it was real, wasn’t meant for the camera or to sell more issues of a magazine he couldn’t care less about with the enticing scent of Stiles flooding his senses.

They probably scar a few people in the process, but soon they find themselves in Derek’s apartment, Stiles stumbling backwards in the direction of the bedroom, Derek pouncing and when the other doesn’t move fast enough simply scoops him into his arms only to drop him on the bed two seconds later.  
It’s fast, rough and desperate and when they’re finally sated and fall asleep – naked and covered in fluids that probably should’ve been washed off, Stiles’ back against Derek’s chest and Derek’s arms wrapped securely around him - it feels real.

-

Derek wakes up, cold and alone.

~X~

On the bright side – if there’s a bright side when you feel like there’s a little, black sky hanging over you pouring rain down on you nonstop – he isn’t supposed to be at the office for the next couple of days, which means he’ll just have to change the beddings and Stiles’ scent won’t be there to haunt him any further.  
Derek bundles the pillow and duvet and sleeps curled around them for three days.

-

He learnt early on that Laura has a sixth sense when it comes to his moping around and seeing as he really doesn’t want his sister meddling in this he finally changes the beddings, showers and dresses the same as he always does on Wednesdays: a pair of jeans, a short sleeved shirt and his favorite sneakers. He’s looking for his keys when the doorbell rings and as he straightens he curses himself for whatever he did that managed to trigger Laura’s senses, and trying to come up with a reason he shouldn’t be dragged to a club tonight – even if he knows he won’t get a choice.

 _However, he’s em >not_ prepared for the sight greeting him when he finally opens the door. Stiles is standing there; his hair looks greasy, chin and cheeks covered in something that could maybe be called stubble in the loosest sense of the word, there are dark circles under his blood shot eyes. In short he looks about as awful as Derek feels, but before he can say anything Stiles is through the door, arms wrapped around his waist and Stiles’ face trying to become one with Derek’s chest, breathing him in in huge, loud intakes of air.

Derek knows they should probably talk about this, but all he can think about is the fact that he has Stiles’ enticing scent in his nose, has Stiles skin almost under the palms of his hands and a bed that doesn’t smell right anymore. It’s instinct more than anything else that has him putting his hands on Stiles’ ass, hoisting him up in the air (sucking in a sharp breath when Stiles brush against him before wrapping his legs around his waist) slamming the door shut and making his way towards the bedroom.  
Stiles bounces on the bed where Derek drops him, his mouth falling open as if to say something only to snap shut when he drops onto the bed, straddling Stiles’ hips and bending forwards attaching his lips to the tender spot under Stiles’ jaw that has him bucking his hips in desperate search of friction.

Derek’s sucking marks onto the pale skin, wants to make sure everybody knows the boy belongs to him. He’s frantic with the need to mark Stiles inside and out, has no time for inconsequential things like buttons or zippers, no patience either as both would require him to take attention from Stiles’ neck which in turn would stop those breathy little moans spilling from his lips. So he lets go, lets the wolf closer to the surface and feel the way fingernails turn in to claws that slice through fabric like a hot knife through butter. 

The room is hot, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and sex, Stiles’ cock a living, breathing thing where it’s trapped between their bodies, smearing precum over Derek’s jeans. And it’s not enough, all of Stiles’ skin laid out for him to touch and taste but none of his own getting to experience the joy of it since he’s been too preoccupied to divest himself of his clothes.

Reluctantly he detaches himself from Stiles’ neck and sits up, careful not to put too much weight on the body under him. He takes his time to enjoy the view, the way hickeys are blooming on Stiles’ skin, the way the flush starting at his pecs spreads all the way to his hairline. At some point Derek wants to have him like this and then just look, but here and now he’s on a mission so he gets all the way off of Stiles, off the bed shushing the human when he makes a small noise of protest. 

He’s a little more careful but no less quick with getting rid of his own clothes as he was with Stiles’, and once he’s naked he’s back on the bed, covering Stiles with his body from chest to toe.  
Satisfied with being skin to skin at long last Derek this time goes for Stiles’ lips, fitting his own over the human’s, nipping gently at the lower before prodding with his tongue asking for entrance, which Stiles’ graciously grants him and they get lost in the slide of lips and tongues, not battling for dominance but rather exploring each other carefully.

It doesn’t last forever, after all neither Stiles nor Derek are really in the mood for slow and lazy right now, so when Stiles starts squirming in an attempt of getting Derek closer to where he’s achingly hard, the wolf answers by rolling off and flipping Stiles onto his stomach. He lets his hands travel the expanse of skin; plays connect-the-dots with his moles letting his tongue follow the same path. Human hands reach the small of Stiles’ back, clawed ditto curve over the swell of his asscheeks, stroking the skin on their way to his thighs. With a hand on each of Stiles’ legs he gently starts to part them just enough to make room for him.

Here Stiles is soft like a feather and Derek has a feeling that if angels are real and float on skies this is what they’d feel like; he revels in it, soft; warm skin and the unfiltered smell of Stiles before he grows impatient and pushes up, urging Derek to do something. Derek obliges by dragging his nose from Stiles’ balls to the crack of his ass; the full body shudder he gets in return makes him smile and take the trip backwards with his tongue.

Stiles’ skin is pink from his beard and shining with saliva and the human is a writhing sobbing mess begging for more. Derek crawls up his body, makes sure to let his cock drag against the spit slick skin, his arm reaching for the drawer in the night stand where he keeps the lube even as he dips his head to whisper in Stiles’ ear.

“What do you want, baby?”

Stiles whimpers as his eyes fall shut and his left hand clutches at the pillow. Derek brings the bottle into Stiles’ line of sight.

“Open your eyes,” he demands and once Stiles focuses he continues. “I’m going to open you up and then I’m going to fuck you so hard you see stars. And when you think it’s over, when you’re begging for a hand on that pretty little dick of yours, I’m going to knot you.” Derek emphasizes his words with a hard thrust of his hips making Stiles gasp in surprise.

“Would you like that, baby boy?” he asks, a small chuckle escaping him at Stiles’ eager nod and taking that as the permission it is he finally clicks the bottle open, pouring some of its content onto his finger.

He goes slow at first, keeps a steady stream of unconscious filth floating from his lips as he gently trails the skin between Stiles’ cheeks, then the rim, adding liberal amounts of lube as he goes, letting one finger slip inside to the first knuckle, keeps it there until Stiles opens up and then he goes to town.

He’s four fingers in and contemplating if he should try with the thumb too when Stiles resurfaces enough to turn his head and demand to get a cock in him. Derek doesn’t waste time with arguing simply withdraws his fingers and coats his cock in what he hopes is enough lube.

One smooth move later he’s buried to the hilt in Stiles’ welcoming warmth only to pull out, dive back in; positive Stiles will catch up once he manages to find the right spot. He knows he’s found it when Stiles starts moving with him, mouth hanging open to let out the sweetest noises Derek’s ever heard being punched out of him.

Stiles’ cock is hanging hard and heavy between his legs, swaying with their movements and he shortly considers if he should jerk Stiles of. He abandons the thought at the telltale tingle at the base of his spine, the way it gets increasingly more difficult pulling from Stiles’ body and pushing back in.

He wraps his arm around Stiles’ torso and pulls him into an upright position, Stiles’ back against his front, a hand toying with one of Stiles’ nipples, twisting and rubbing, feeling it hardening under his touch, his hips thrusting ever deeper until there’s nowhere further to go and instinct takes over as his teeth clamps down on the meaty part of Stiles’ shoulder and he comes.  
Derek’s dimly aware of a shout before there’s a vice like grip on his knot, the smell of semen as Stiles is coming untouched and his ass milking Derek for all he’s got. Before long Stiles slumps against him, boneless and sated face slack and eyes half closed, his heart beat slipping into the slow rhythm Derek associates with sleep.

~X~

Even ten years later, waking up with Stiles starfished out on the bed under him is the best way to start his day. The barely there light of pre-dawn letting him know that there’s an hour before any demands will be made of them, and Derek plans to take full advantage of those precious minutes as he carefully gets in between Stiles’ legs.

[end]


End file.
